


Pencil Pusher

by PFL (msmoat)



Series: Table Conversation [2]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 19:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15492672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: Lewis makes a choice.A sequel to "Table Conversation", and prequel to "To Everything There is a Season".





	Pencil Pusher

**Author's Note:**

> I'd forgotten I wrote this in 2014, after writing a proper sequel in 2018. Oops. But it actually fits in rather nicely, so now we've got a...series, I guess!

“Here we are,” Lewis’s mother said as she brought the tea tray in and placed it on the table that stood between the sofa and her chair. “Now, I have these lemon digestives that I think are very nice, but I made certain to get some of these chocolate ones that you like so much. She sat down in her chair, huffing a little from the effort, but smiling. 

“Thank you, mum. Here, let me pour this for you.” He made her tea with just the right amount of milk and sugar and handed it to her. 

“Thank you, Geoffrey.” She sat back in her chair, cup in hand. “How you can drink your tea black, I don’t know.”

“I just got used to it.” On stakeouts, in the old days with CI5, you took what you could get. He picked up one of the chocolate digestives, even though he had stopped eating them regularly years ago.

“I went without during the war, but never since.” 

“And that’s how it should be. So, what’s all the news, then? He settled against the sofa back and sipped his tea as she rattled on about family and friends and neighbours. His colleagues made comments about his regular visits to his mother. They never seemed to realise that it was an effective strategy for staying connected with the real world. Of course, they would say the ‘real world’ was the one they inhabited—the inner workings of security forces and the government. He believed they too often forgot the reasons why they had their jobs. What was it George Cowley used to say? It was the price they paid ‘to keep this island clean and smelling—even if ever so faintly—of roses and lavender.’ He worried about the people who didn’t consider it a price. Listening to his mother now as she talked about births and troubles and graduations and scandals, he felt cleansed.

“Oh, now, there’s that nice Mr Duncan. I shall be sorry to see him go.” She was looking out the front window.

“The one who helped you with the ice last year? Where’s he going, then?” He followed her gaze to see a man with grey hair walk down the steps of the house opposite.

“He’s moving away—I’m sure I told you. He and that Mr Phillips have bought a house together. Alice was terribly disapproving, but, as I told her, if two middle-aged single men, both lodgers, want to pool their incomes to share a house, then why not? Well, of course, she thinks there’s more going on between them, but I’ve certainly never seen anything like that. For goodness sake, Ray is a widower!

“Ray?” There was something about the figure that drew Lewis to his feet to look more closely through the window. The man was clearly on the watch for someone else.

“Yes. Well, we got to chatting after I nearly fell on the ice last year. We see each other in the shops now and again, and have had the odd cup of tea in Waitrose. He was married, but his wife died of cancer, poor man.”

Whoever Duncan was waiting for was obviously not in sight. Lewis watched as Duncan turned and propped himself against the railing in front of the house, arms crossed. Something cold and hard twisted in Lewis’ gut. He recognised the man: _Ray Doyle_! It _couldn’t_ be. Doyle was dead. “What does he do?” He heard his own voice as if from a distance.

“Oh, he was some sort of civil servant—accounting, I think. Retired now, and not much to live on, I’m afraid. But he came into something of an inheritance recently, and that’s why he can move out. To be honest, I think that’s why Alice is being catty about it—she’ll have to find a new lodger now, and he’s been a good one.”

It couldn’t possibly be Doyle. This man’s hair was shorter, straighter. It was just that he happened to pose like Doyle used to do. He must be mad. Yet he continued to watch the man. “Who is Mr…?”

“Phillips? Another lodger—with Mrs Granger next door to me here. He moved in, oh, it must be about eight months now? He owned a print shop in Liverpool, but lost it. I think he drives a lorry now, or maybe it’s just odd jobs. Anyway, they got to know each other. Ray was telling me they go birdwatching together, and they often meet for dinners out. I’m sure it’s no wonder they would find it more congenial to share a house with each other than be lodgers.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Quite understandable.” He watched as a white van stopped in the street near the house. Duncan pushed off from the rail, a smile on his face as he went to greet the driver, who was spreading his hands in apology. They had a short conversation, and then the driver followed Duncan up the steps into the house. Lewis placed a small bet with himself, even as he called himself a fool for it. But Cowley had always told him to trust his gut. _Intelligence counts for quite a lot of course, but gut instinct will carry you further in this business. You need to work on that, Lewis_. “Have you met Mr Phillips?”

“Yes, once or twice. He’s a charming man, but—” She stopped speaking abruptly.

Lewis glanced at her. “But?”

“Well.” She looked self-conscious. “I’m not saying Alice is right, or even if she is that it’s any of our business, but I do think Mr Phillips only has eyes for Mr Duncan.”

“I see.” He looked again out the window. The two men were coming down the steps. Duncan was carrying a box. Phillips was carrying two boxes and a suitcase, and he had a pack slung on one shoulder. They walked to the van, talking animatedly the whole way. He didn’t need to hear the conversation, he knew how it would go:

_Oh, don’t strain yourself, mate._

_No, I won’t. That’s what I have you for._

_Just for that, you’re buying dinner._

_We’ll stop at the first Little Chef we encounter._

_Dinner, Ray, not—_

_They’ll have fried bread, what else do you want?_

_Oh, now you’re feeding me fried bread?_

_Consider it your last fried bread_.

Ray Doyle had died in an explosion two years ago. Officially, the cause had been a gas leak, but Lewis knew it had been a bomb. The assumption was it had been set by someone out of Doyle’s past, but the investigation had gone nowhere. Only a year and a half ago, Bodie had been killed, set-up by Cowley. Lewis was one of the few who knew that. He had handled the paperwork. He knew the team that had been put in place by Cowley to terminate Bodie, once Doyle had died. Agents were only allowed to retire if they were ’secured’. Doyle had been Bodie’s surety and vice versa. The sniper had failed to hit his target when a light had gone out at just the wrong moment. Bodie had run; they’d caught him by the river. His body had not been recovered. 

Bloody hell. Ray Doyle hadn’t died. Neither had Bodie. Did Cowley know? No. He was certain of that. Cowley adhered strictly to the rules he believed in. The public at large, probably even many in the government, believed Cowley himself was retired. He wasn’t. And prime amongs his responsibilities was the security of past agents. _The former agent, unless properly secured, is a danger to himself and to the public_. Cowley’s words. Cowley’s mentor’s words. He knew his own duty. “Do you know—” But he broke off before he could finish the sentence and ask the location of the new house. Memories flooded his brain:

_Lewis!_

_Yeah?_

_Darby's out the back somewhere._

_Okay._

He had failed them that day, although it had been his clue that had led to the break in the case. They had saved Helen Pierce, killed Liam O’Leary, and discovered the identity of the Banker. He had seen first hand however, the damage that secrets could do to the innocent. It had been after that case that Cowley had eased him into administration. He pushed paper, not bullets or villains, but he knew his work was vital all the same. They each had their roles to play. Their duty… _Trust your gut, man. Not everything needs to be by the book_.

“Do you know,” he said, walking back to the sofa, “I will try one of these lemon digestives.”

“Well, I do like them.”

He was even better than Cowley at hiding trails and choosing which of the stupid rules to break. No one would know. He would see to that. He sipped his tea, smiled at his mother, and breathed the clean air.

END  
October 2014 (Updated July 2018)


End file.
